The Intruder at 221B Baker Street
by Skoliro95
Summary: It had been a busy few weeks for Sherlock, one of the most complex cases he had encountered yet, and he was glad that it was all over. However, as he was leaving the hospital he could not help feeling a tinge of sadness for he thought he would not have another case as mentally stimulating as this one for a long time. He was wrong.
1. The Intruder

**Chapter 1**

It had been a busy few weeks for Sherlock, one of the most complex cases he had encountered yet, and he was glad that it was all over. However, as he was leaving the hospital he could not help feeling a tinge of sadness for he thought he would not have another case as mentally stimulating as this one for a long time. He was wrong.

He stepped out into the heavy rain and rushed across the car park towards the main road. He hailed a passing taxi which then stopped a few metres away.

"Where to?" Asked the driver as Sherlock clambered into the back seat.

"221B Baker Street"

He could not stop a sense of uneasiness running through him as he remembered his first case with Dr John Watson, 'A Study in Pink' as he called it. His thoughts drifted back to the case which he had so cunningly just solved and remained there until the taxi pulled up outside 221B Baker Street. He paid the driver and dashed to the front door, fumbling in his pocket for his key on the way. It wasn't until he was about to push his key into the lock that he noticed a small chip of paint missing from the doorframe, as if it had been forced open. He glanced behind him and saw that the taxi had not yet departed and the driver was watching him intently. He smiled at the driver as if nothing were amiss and turned back to the door, inserting the key into the lock and turning it slowly to prevent it from making a loud click and alerting anyone inside to his presence. He opened the door and went into the hallway as quietly as he could, closing the door softly.

His heart was racing as he glanced around, looking for any evidence of the unexpected visitor that had broken into the flat. He immediately noticed a single set of muddy footprints leading up the stairs into his and John's flat. John. Until that moment it had completely slipped his mind that his flatmate had returned hours earlier and may now be in danger.

"John" he murmured, as he peered up the staircase, listening intently for any sound that might reveal the intruder's whereabouts and, more importantly, if John was alright. He could hear two voices, both male. One he recognised as John, the other he had not heard before. He could not quite make out what they were saying but took reassurance from the fact that John was talking as it meant that he was not unconscious... or worse.

He twisted round and peered through the peep-hole in the door, the taxi was still waiting, the driver watching the door intently. He turned back to the stairs and slowly, silently crept up them, listening to the two men all the while. John and the intruder had suddenly stopped talking and Sherlock heard a thump followed by an agonising groan. He was becoming increasingly concerned towards the health of his friend as he crept ever closer to the door at the top of the stairs, leading into the flat.

He was halfway up the stairs when he spotted something lying on the step in front of him. It was an empty chewing gum packet. He picked it up and slipped it into his pocket, unsure of what it meant or of its relevance to the matter in hand but certain that he would, at some point, need it.

He quickly dashed up the last few steps and stood, silently beside the door, looking for anything that might give him a hint towards the intruder's identity.

"Come in Mr Holmes," the intruder called out brightly "we have been waiting for you to arrive for some time now."

Sherlock didn't reply and remained silent and unmoving beside the door.

"Mr Holmes, if you value you friend's life I suggest you show yourself." this time the voice was much more menacing and Sherlock had no doubt that the intruder would indeed kill John if he so wished. Instead of entering the flat, he called out "John?"

"Run!" was the reply, this time in John's voice, "Run Sherlock, Run! Don't worry about me, just get out of here!"

There was another thump and again John let out a cry of pain. Sherlock needed no more persuading, he reached out his hand and pushed open the door. It creaked on its hinges as it swung open and revealed the horrific sight that greeted him. Sherlock felt all his breath rush out of him as he took in the sight before him.

John sat, almost motionless, tied to his chair next to the fireplace with a thick length of rope. He had been badly beaten, his face was almost unrecognisable under the cuts and bruises. His left leg was bent at a strange angle and Sherlock could tell instantly that it was broken. The pain that he felt for his friend and an intense self-loathing consumed him briefly as he realised that this would not have happened had he allowed John to remain with him at the hospital instead of sending him home to get some rest.

He recovered from this brief lapse of self-control and proceeded to examine the intruder who now stood before him with a menacing smile upon his face and a long metal crow-bar in his hand. The last thing Sherlock saw was the cold, black eyes staring back at him as the crowbar struck his head and everything faded into darkness...


	2. A Shocking Discovery

**Chapter 2**

_-5 hours earlier-_

"Come on, John"

John watched as Sherlock ran off through the doors of St. Barts and groaned. Sherlock wanted him to follow and, despite all that had happened in the past few weeks, John wanted to go with him. He sighed and quickly dashed across the car park, sprinting through the double doors and into the hospital. He managed to glimpse Sherlock dart round the corner at the end of the corridor and sped after him.

"This had better be good Sherlock" He muttered to himself as he ran through yet another set of double doors. As he entered the corridor, he noticed a door swinging shut and headed for it. He burst into the room, almost crashing into Sherlock who stood just in front of the door. The expression on his face was one of both shock and disappointment. John froze, he had never seen Sherlock this way before.

"Sherlock..."

His voice trailed off as he caught sight of the object lying in the middle of the room. He gasped with shock and fell to his knees, no longer able to stand. Sherlock slowly stepped forward towards the object, reaching out tentatively to pull away the thin, white cloth draped carefully over it. He hesitated for a second and exchanged a glance with John, as if asking for permission. John nodded and watched intently as Sherlock drew back the cloth, revealing the body of Elaine Briggs, the woman who hired Sherlock to solve this case. Sherlock recoiled from the corpse, he had not been expecting this. His reaction worried John, Sherlock rarely showed any emotion and his evident shock at this new discovery meant that something in Sherlock's calculations had gone badly wrong.

Sherlock regained his composure and was once more his cold, indifferent self. He shuffled forwards and crouched over the body, looking for anything that may reveal the cause of death. He frowned and examined the body again, closer this time but still without success. Frustrated, Sherlock stood up and strode across the room towards the window. He thrust it open and examined the frame for any evidence. Again, he was unsuccessful. Concerned, John walked over to Sherlock and put a hand on his shoulder, as if to comfort him.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock turned to John and the frustration was clear in his face.

"John, I... I don't understand. Elaine died in this room, that much is obvious, however, there is no evidence to suggest the cause of death. I'm certain she was murdered but there is no sign of a struggle, nor is there any mark upon her body which indicates that she was. The room was locked from the inside, meaning the killer would have had to exit through this window which would have been locked, yet there is no key, nor is there any evidence of the window being forced open. It just doesn't make any sense. Why can't I figure this out?"

"It's been a long day Sherlock, you probably just need some rest, I know I do. Why don't you call Lestrade, let him know what's happened and leave him to take care of things. You can come back tomorrow with a clear mind and finish the case then."

"No!"

Sherlock turned back to the body and examined it for a third time, again unsuccessful. Frustrated, he turned around and charged out of the door, shoving a small table across the room and smashing the various glass instruments that had been carefully placed upon it.

"I must finish the case, I cannot rest until I have solved it."

John rushed after him, pausing only to place the table against the wall, out of the way. He followed Sherlock back through the many corridors to the entrance of St Barts, only just managing to keep up. Sherlock stormed through the reception, shoving the double doors aside as he strode out into the car park. John had only just caught up with him when he withdrew his revolver and shot into the air four times. Within minutes Lestrade arrived at the hospital, he immediately walked over to Sherlock and demanded an explanation.

As they talked, a wave of exhaustion washed over John. He staggered over to a near-by bench and sat down heavily, groaning as all the cuts and bruises he had acquired in the past few days reminded him of their presence. Sherlock noticed his discomfort and walked over to him, concerned.

"John?"

"I'm fine Sherlock, I just need a minute."

Sherlock sat beside him on the bench, putting an arm round his shoulders.

"No, John, you're not. You look exhausted. I think you should go home and rest, I can make do without you."

"Honestly Sherlock, I'm ok. I want to finish this case with you, I can manage a few more hours."

"No John, you're too tired. You need to sleep. Take a taxi back to the flat and rest, you'll feel better after a few hours sleep."

John didn't bother arguing, he didn't have the energy. Sherlock pulled him to his feet and helped him to a near-by taxi. He got in the back as Sherlock talked to the driver, paying him in advance. The taxi moved through the car park, gradually gathering speed. John looked back out of the window and saw Sherlock watching as the taxi departed. He smiled to himself, happy to be leaving the hospital and heading home, unaware of what was waiting for him at 221B Baker Street...


	3. Captured

**Chapter 3**

Despite his best efforts to stay awake, John found himself drifting in and out of sleep as the taxi crept through the streets of London. Even late at night, there was a large amount of traffic on the main roads and by the time the driver pulled up outside 221B Baker Street, John was fast asleep.

"This is going to be easy" The driver muttered to himself as he got out of his seat and walked around to John's door. He opened the door and tapped John lightly on the shoulder to wake him. As John stirred, the driver pulled a pistol out of his coat pocket and aimed it squarely at John's forehead. Sleepily, John looked up at the driver, noticed the gun pointing at him and instinctively froze, wishing he had bought something to defend himself with.

"If you say a word, I'll blow your brains out." The driver growled. Nodding to show he understood, John glanced around desperately, hoping that there was someone near-by who could help. The street was deserted, they were alone. He felt a sense of hopelessness wash over him as he realised that he was completely in the other man's power.

"Now, you will do exactly as I say. If you do not, I will kill you. Understand?"

John nodded again, unsure of what else to do.

"Good. Get out of the taxi and walk over to the door of your flat."

John did as he was told, casting his eyes around frantically, searching for anything that might help him. There was nothing. As he stepped up to the door, he noticed that it had been left slightly open. Mrs Hudson was away visiting family and he had ensured the door was locked when he left with Sherlock earlier that day. This could only mean one thing, someone had broken into the flat and was waiting for them to return. His heart sank as he realised the gravity of his situation. He turned to the taxi driver, who had followed him up the steps leading to the door, awaiting his next instruction. He could not think of anything else to do.

The taxi driver just stared back at him, smirking, as John suddenly felt a sharp blow to the back of his head and crumpled to the ground, unconscious.

* * *

"Doctor Watson?"

Slowly, John stirred, wincing as he suddenly became aware of a searing pain towards the back of his head. He tried to lift his arm to inspect the wound, only to find that he couldn't move. He started to panic as he recalled what had happened before he blacked out. He slowly opened his eyes and glanced around. He was in the living room of his flat, tied to his chair in front of the fireplace with a thick length of rope. A small fire had been lit and was the only source of light in the room, casting dark shadows against the walls.

"Ah, you're awake"

It was the same voice as before, coming from the doorway that led to the stairs. As he watched, a figure stepped out of the shadows and made his way towards John. It was a young man, in his early twenties. He was clean-shaven and had short, dark hair that contrasted against his pale skin. The thing that caught John's attention the most, however, was the man's eyes. Cold, black eyes twisted with anger and hatred that immediately sent a shiver down John's spine.

The man held a crowbar, coated in blood. John had no doubt that this was the weapon used to create the wound on the back of his head.

"W-who are you?"

The man was in front of him now, still holding his crowbar, couching down so their eyes met, a cruel smile upon his face. As John stared into his eyes, he realised the nature of the man before him, the lengths he would go to in order to get what he wanted. He gazed into the man's eyes and terror filled his mind, overpowering all other emotions. The man leaned in towards John until their faces were only a few inches apart and John could feel his pulse increasing, every fibre of his being screamed to run, to get as far away from this man as possible before it was too late.

"My identity doesn't matter. Now, I need some information from you, Doctor Watson. Information regarding a close friend of yours, Mr Sherlock Holmes"


	4. Powerless

**Chapter 4**

"Ugh"

Sherlock groaned as he stirred, his forehead felt hot and sticky and was throbbing badly. His legs felt stiff, as if he had been sat there for a long time. He tried to move them, to stretch them out and get rid of this cramp, but found that he couldn't. Confused, he attempted to open his eyes, hoping his surroundings would help him make sense of his situation, only to find that his left eye was stuck shut. The sticky substance that coated his forehead had dripped down onto his closed eyelid and dried there, effectively gluing his eye shut. What had happened to him?

"S-Sherlock? Are y-you ok?"

It was John's voice, he sounded... weak. Sherlock tried to reply, to ask John what was going on but couldn't. His mind felt sluggish and slow, processing his feelings into thoughts was just about all he could manage. Slowly, he opened his right eye and looked around. There was a small fire burning in the fireplace to his right, the only source of light in the room. John was sat opposite him, his face distorted by an array of cuts and bruises, he looked worried. Again, Sherlock tried to move, this time trying to lift his arm. When he found that he could not, he glanced down and saw that he had been tied to his chair with a thick length of rope. Bewildered, he looked up towards John and realised that he was also bound to the chair opposite Sherlock's.

This was becoming ever more confusing for Sherlock's muddled brain.

A floor board creaked towards Sherlock's left and a figure stepped out from the shadows, holding a bloodied crowbar.

"Hello again, Mr Holmes"

Sherlock watched as his captor walked forwards, stopping directly in front of him. His black eyes gleamed with excitement as he looked down on Sherlock, a cruel smile upon his face. He slowly crouched down until his eyes were level with Sherlock's. He leaned in towards Sherlock, so their foreheads were almost touching and quietly whispered, so that only Sherlock could hear him.

"How does it feel Sherlock? Being outsmarted for the first time in your life? Knowing that both you and John are completely in my power? Not being able to use that brilliant mind of yours?"

Sherlock didn't reply, he couldn't. Instead, he simply stared back into the cold, black eyes of his captor, his muddled brain unable to figure out what it all meant. The man opposite him laughed and stood up, again looking down on Sherlock, grinning with pleasure as he saw the confusion on Sherlock's face.

"I don't think Sherlock's feeling quite himself at the moment, John."

He spoke loudly this time, ensuring John heard every word. He stepped aside, turning to look at John. As he did, John caught sight of Sherlock and panic got the better of him. His breath caught and a terrible feeling of nausea crept around his waist as he realised the severity of the situation that both he and Sherlock were in. Sherlock was pale, very pale and beads of sweat had formed upon his forehead, mixing with the blood pouring from the open wound formed by the crowbar. Despite being drenched in sweat, he was shivering and seemed unable to speak. It was Sherlock's expression, however, that shocked John the most. Sherlock rarely showed any emotion, he thought it a weakness, but now his sharp features were contorted into an expression of pure bewilderment, he had absolutely no idea what was going on. Sherlock Holmes was completely baffled.

"W-what have y-you done? What's w-wrong w-with him?"

John could barely speak. He spat out the words, struggling to remain in control of himself as anger and hatred towards the man responsible for this filled his mind, threatening to take over.

"Oh, just a little gift from a friend of mine, a new drug he's been working on. Pretty strong stuff, don't you agree? I've been dying to test it out for weeks. It should wear off... eventually."

The man moved forwards as he spoke, crouching down in front of John. A cruel, menacing smile upon his face, he was enjoying this. John was tense, trying to restrain himself as anger and hatred surged though him. His captor noticed this and smirked. He slowly lifted his crowbar and gently touched it against John's bloodied cheek, laughing as John flinched away from the cold metal. He could feel John's breath, fast and irregular, against his neck as he leaned in closer towards him, gazing deep into his eyes. He pressed his cheek against John's and whispered quietly into his ear.

"Moriarty sends his regards"

John froze and his heart sank as he heard the words. Moriarty. He looked towards the man as he withdrew from John and walked into the shadows, back towards the door. Glancing back only once before stepping through the doorway and disappearing from sight. John heard the front door slam shut a few moments later, followed by the click of the lock sliding into place.

They were alone, or so he thought...


	5. An Unexpected Call

**Chapter 5**

_-3 hours earlier-_

John was unconscious for the sixth time that day when the phone rang. He was tied to his chair next to the fireplace with a thick length of rope. His arms, chest and face covered in a series of fresh wounds, the majority of them still bleeding badly. The man crouching in front of him turned towards the mobile, confused. He hadn't been expecting a call. Slowly, he rose to his feet and walked over to the ringing phone. He placed the bloodied crowbar down on the table beside the phone and glanced at the screen. The number was withheld. He answered the call, cautiously lifting the phone to his ear.

"How is he?"

He instantly recognised the cold, soft voice of Jim Moriarty, his employer. He smiled to himself as he replied, thinking about what had happened in the last two hours. It had been fun.

"He passed out... again. You were right, he's tougher than he looks. I haven't managed to get anything out of him yet. This Sherlock Holmes must be pretty special, not many people are this loyal to their flatmates."

Moriarty laughed softly as the other man spoke, he was going to enjoy this.

"Again? How many times is that now? Six? Be careful with him, I don't want him broken. Well... not yet anyway."

"Not yet?"

Again, he smiled as he replied, hoping that his employer would allow him to do the thing he enjoyed above all else.

"Not yet. Sherlock needs to be there, to witness it, to know that he could have prevented it. I want him to feel the overwhelming pain of loss. I want to see it in his eyes, the BURN."

The menacing tone that had crept into his employer's voice sent a shiver down the man's spine as he remembered why so many people, himself included, feared Moriarty. He hesitated for a moment, unsure of what to say. Moriarty noticed the pause and continued, the menacing tone gone from his voice.

"Anyway, enough of _that_. I've got a little favour to ask of you. If you agree, I will make it worth your while."

The other man smiled again, unable to keep the excitement from his voice.

"You mean... I can... ?"

Moriarty laughed, his employee's love of violence always amused him.

"Yes, but not now, later. Now, don't you want to hear my little proposal?"

Grinning now, the other man glanced towards John who was still unconscious. When he woke up, he was going to have the worst few hours of his life, filled with pain and torment and Sherlock was going to be there to witness it. This was going to be fun.

"Yes, yes. Of course I do, I just... I'm so... thank you!"

"Don't thank me, you've earned it. Just make sure that you wait until I am there to watch, I don't want to miss it."

Hearing the excitement in his employer's voice, the other man realised this must mean a lot to him. Until this day, he had never heard of Sherlock Holmes but it was evident from the tone of his employer's voice that there was a lot of history between the two men.

"Of course"

"Good, I look forward to it. Tell me, will John be unconscious for some time?"

This question confused him, why would that interest his employer? It must have something to do with the favour he had mentioned.

He walked over to John and briefly examined him. John didn't look like he was going to be waking up anytime soon. He smiled to himself as he saw the array of deep cuts and bruises, admiring his work. He had enjoyed it.

"Yes, I think so. I can wake him up though, if you want."

He glanced towards his crowbar as he spoke, eager to use it again.

"No, that will not be necessary. Keep him unconscious for the next 30 minutes, if he wakes... you know what to do."

He grinned, understanding exactly what his employer meant. Moriarty continued.

"I have decided to come to 221B Baker Street, I want to watch as you... interrogate John. However, I don't want him to know that I am there so I am asking you to make sure he remains ignorant. Do whatever you will to ensure that this happens, I don't mind as long as you do not break him."

"So I can... ?"

Again, he couldn't keep the excitement from his voice. His hands trembled as he held the phone to his ear, eagerly awaiting Moriarty's reply.

Moriarty laughed again, amusement clear in his voice.

"Yes, sometimes I think you're enjoying this more that I am. I will be there in about 15 minutes, make sure he is unconscious when I arrive. I look forward to seeing your work."

He was about to hang up when suddenly a thought crossed his mind.

"What was the favour you mentioned?"

"Oh, that. I can't tell you over the phone, wait until I arrive at the flat. You never know who might be listening."

With that, Moriarty hung up. Slowly, he put the phone back on the table. A small cough towards his right startled him. He turned towards the source of the noise and saw that John was stirring, he had obviously overestimated the severity of his injuries. He knew what he had to do now. A cruel smile formed upon his face as he reached for the crowbar lying on the table.

He watched as John slowly opened his eyes, wincing as the pain from his various wounds swept over him. John glanced around as the other man started walking towards him, his eyes widening as he caught sight of the crowbar, fear evident on his face. The intruder continued to walk towards him.

John's reaction amused him, he laughed as he stopped in front of John, crouching down so their eyes met.

"Hello John"

He spoke softly, gazing deep into John's eyes. He smiled again as panic spread across John's face, lifting the crowbar into the air. He paused, savouring the moment before bringing the crowbar crashing down upon its target.


	6. The Spider Emerges

**Chapter 6**

Roughly an hour had passed since the intruder had left 221B Baker Street and John was becoming increasingly anxious. Was he just going to leave them here, tied up like this?

Sherlock was getting profoundly worse, he no longer responded when John called out to him and he had stopped moving, instead letting his head hang limp, his chin resting against his chest. His eyes were closed, screwed together as if he was in a lot of pain and he was even paler than before. John wasn't feeling too good himself, his left leg was broken in at least two places and the majority of his wounds were still bleeding, coating him in a grimy mixture of blood and sweat. He was exhausted, the last five hours had been some of the worst of his entire life and it looked like it was only going to get worse.

He shifted his weight slightly and grimaced with pain as he agitated the various bruises and cuts that he had acquired during his 'interrogation'. The rope binding him to the chair was tied so tightly that it had started to rub against his skin, creating painful blisters. His head spun and he felt as if he was going to slip into unconsciousness for the ninth time that day, he had lost a lot of blood in the last few hours and it was seriously affecting him.

Slowly, his thoughts drifted back once more to the intruder's last words 'Moriarty sends his regards'. What could it mean? Was the man working for Moriarty? Could he be one of the people that Moriarty 'sponsors'? Was Moriarty the 'friend' who created and supplied the drug that was now surging through Sherlock's bloodstream? Or was Moriarty just an acquaintance of the intruder that had heard of his plans but decided not to interfere, instead asking him to pass on a simple message? He had no idea.

"Sherlock would know"

He spoke to himself, breaking the silence and hoping that Sherlock would react to his words. Sherlock remained motionless, sat in the chair opposite him. His heart sank and a sense of hopelessness washed over him.

If only Sherlock would just snap out of it...

Suddenly, he became aware of the tears streaming down his cheeks, mixing with the blood and sweat that already coated his skin. He didn't even try to stop crying, he no longer cared if Sherlock, or anyone else, was watching. He gave in to the overwhelming sadness that had overtaken him and started sobbing violently, wishing Sherlock would come back to him.

"S-Sherlock... p-please. I... I need you."

Again, Sherlock didn't react. John continued to sob, screwing his eyes up and pushing his chin against his chest. Eventually, his breathing slowed and he drifted off to sleep, tears still running down his face.

* * *

John had been asleep for roughly five minutes when Moriarty stepped out of Sherlock's bedroom and quietly crept over to Sherlock, pausing only to check that John was still asleep and likely to remain so for some time. He crouched down in front of the detective and leant in towards him, their cheeks brushing against each other. He whispered into Sherlock's ear, trying not to wake John.

"Hello Sexy"

Immediately, Sherlock's eye snapped open and lifted his head, staring straight at Moriarty. His mouth dropped open, as if he were going to speak but no words came out. His expression was one of both fear and confusion, he was alarmed by Moriarty's presence and knew to fear him but could not remember why. Moriarty laughed quietly, amused by Sherlock's reaction. He reached out, placing his hand upon Sherlock's face, laughing again as the detective flinched away from his touch.

"Don't worry, _I'm_ not going to hurt you... our mutual friend, however, is not so kind"

He gestured to the wound on Sherlock's forehead, still bleeding slightly. He admired his employee's work, the large gash in Sherlock's forehead and the blood coating most of the left hand side of his face were obviously causing him a lot of pain. He gently stroked Sherlock's cheek with his thumb, smiling as Sherlock's expression turned to one of disgust.

He stared into Sherlock's eyes for a while more before standing up and releasing his hold upon Sherlock's face. He turned away from the detective and strode over to the other side of the room. He withdrew a small box from his pocket, opened it and removed a small camera, roughly the same size and shape as the head of a screw. He carefully attached it to the wall, using a small drop of glue, ensuring it was pointed directly at Sherlock. He didn't want to miss anything over the next few hours.

He walked over to John and knelt down in front of him, smiling as he saw the array of cuts and bruises that covered his chest, arms and face. He was amused to find that, although John was asleep, tears still streamed down his face, washing away the grime that coated his cheeks and revealing the severity of his injuries. Grinning, he twisted round to face Sherlock, who was still watching him.

"Look at him Sherly, look at what you've done. All the pain that you've caused him. Poor old John, your loyal friend, always there for you. What would he think if he knew you could have prevented all this? That you could have saved him so much pain but didn't. Would he still love you then Sherly? Or would he hate you for it? Would he never want to see you again, unable to forgive you for what you put him through? I know I would."

Sherlock remained silent and motionless as Moriarty spoke, his face blank. A single tear slid down his cheek, soon followed by another, much to Moriarty's delight. He stood up and faced Sherlock, laughing quietly as the detective cried for the first time in many years.

He watched Sherlock for a while longer before turning and walking slowly back into Sherlock's bedroom, closing the door behind him. Seconds after Moriarty left, Sherlock heard the front door opening and closing, followed by the sound of footsteps on the stairway.

The intruder had returned.


	7. Preparation

**Chapter 7**

_- 2 hours earlier -_

Slowly, the dark haired man placed his crowbar upon the table and walked over to John, who was slumped in his chair next to the fire. He crouched down and carefully examined him, checking his breathing and heart rate. Although it looked as if John was going to remain unconscious for some time, he injected a sedative into his arm, just to be sure. Happy that John wouldn't be waking up any time soon, he rose to his feet and quickly crossed the room. He stepped into the kitchen, where Moriarty was waiting for him, and walked over to his boss.

"How long do we have?"

He could hear the excitement in Moriarty's voice and smiled as he replied. His employer's enthusiasm always pleased him.

"About twenty minutes"

"Good. Now, to business"

He watched as Moriarty withdrew a small box from his coat pocket and opened it, revealing a hypodermic syringe containing an opaque, turquoise liquid. Moriarty held it out to him, gesturing for him to take it. He did so and found that it was a lot heavier than it looked, he lifted it up to his eyes, examining the liquid inside. He had never seen anything quite like it before. He muttered, more to himself than to his employer, a confused expression on his face.

"What is this?"

Moriarty laughed quietly, amused and replied, his soft voice full of joy.

"The little experiment I told you about..."

The other man's face brightened as his employer spoke. Smiling, he examined the liquid again.

"Have you finished it?"

His hands shook slightly as he spoke and he was unable to hide the excitement from his voice. Moriarty smiled at his reaction and hesitated before replying, watching his employee's face as he spoke.

"Yes... but it needs testing"

Again, Moriarty laughed at his employee's reaction. His smile changed to a grin and for a moment he seemed lost for words. His mouth hung open and he almost dropped the syringe in his excitement. Eventually, he was able to speak once more and didn't hesitate to ask his employer exactly what was on his mind.

"Y-you mean... you want _m-me_ to... on...?"

Moriarty smiled, pleased with the effect his words had on the man opposite him.

"Yes, but not John. I want to test the drug thoroughly, his inferior mind is not enough of a challenge"

"S-so... Sherlock?"

He laughed as Moriarty nodded, thrilled that he was not only going to test this new drug, he was going to test it on Sherlock Holmes. Until this day, he knew nothing of Sherlock and this would have mattered little to him. His employer, however, had given him a lot of information about Sherlock in the last few hours and he found that he shared his employer's desire to cause the detective as much pain as possible before the end.

He drew in a deep breath, calming himself before he spoke to stop his voice trembling again.

"How long... how long until Sherlock arrives?"

He was barely able to contain his excitement as he spoke, much to Moriarty's amusement. His employer replied in a much calmer tone, his soft voice unaffected by the excitement the he also felt.

"Probably only an hour or so, it depends on how fast he solves the little murder you staged for me. I've got someone waiting outside St Barts in a cab, he will let us know when Sherlock leaves the hospital"

He nodded, smiling as he remembered the little job Moriarty had given him this morning, he had enjoyed his meeting with Elaine Briggs. It was even more satisfying for him now, knowing that Sherlock was working hard, trying to figure out how she had died.

Moriarty was about to speak when they heard a small cough coming from the living room, John was waking. Alarmed, he looked at his watch, he had been talking to Moriarty for thirty minutes.

Moriarty gestured towards the living room, understanding what his employer meant, the other man obediently walked over to John, pausing only to pick up his crowbar. Moriarty stood silently in the kitchen, smiling as his watched his employee lift the crowbar above his head. John let out a small cry of pain as the crowbar struck him before slumping forward in his chair, unconscious once more.

"Is it done?"

His employer's soft voice broke the silence. He smiled as he gazed down upon John, pausing to admire his handiwork before answering.

"Sleeping like a baby"

Moriarty laughed softly, his employee never failed to amuse him.

"Good. I need to go now, Sherlock will arrive soon."

He nodded, smiling again. He was looking forward to Sherlock's arrival. Moriarty held out a mobile phone, he walked across the room and took it from him, curious.

"You will receive a text fifteen minutes before Sherlock arrives, make sure you are ready."

As he spoke, Moriarty walked across the room towards the door of Sherlock's bedroom. He glanced back to ensure his employee understood before disappearing into the shadows, closing the door softly behind him.

The other man remained standing in the centre of the room for a while more, unsure of what to do. He walked over to the table and placed both the crowbar and the mobile phone upon it before crossing the room and sitting down in Sherlock's chair, opposite John.

He had been sat there for five minutes when the phone vibrated on the table, signalling a new message. He slowly got up and walked across to the phone, picking it up. He opened the message and grinned.

Sherlock Holmes was on his way.


	8. Defeated

**Chapter 8**

Sherlock was still crying silently, unable to stop thinking of all the pain and torment that his actions had caused John, when the door creaked open and the dark-haired man stepped into the room, holding the bloodied crowbar. He glanced up, the dried blood that had coated his left eye washed away by the seemingly endless stream of tears, allowing him to open both eyes once more. He watched fearfully as the man quietly closed the door and walked towards the fireplace. The man smiled as he gazed around the room and immediately noticed John, slumped forward in his chair, whimpering softly as he slept.

He stopped in front of Sherlock and crouched down, looking directly at him and laughing as he saw the tears streaming down his face. The man reached out and placed a hand upon his face, gently stroking his cheek. Scared, Sherlock tried to pull away from the man's touch, his muddled brain unable to cope with everything that was going on. However, trying to resist the drug for the past hour had sapped all the strength out of him and he found that he could not break the man's gentle grip. Unable to control the various emotions racing through his mind, he continued to cry as he stared back at the man, his mouth hanging slightly open, as if he were about to speak. The man smiled again, amused by Sherlock's reaction, and spoke quietly, his cold, mocking voice sending a shiver down Sherlock's spine.

"Aww... Sherly. Did the big, bad Mr Moriarty come out and scare you? Don't worry, I'm here now. Everything's going to be alright"

Sherlock grimaced as the man let go of his face, gently tapping his cheek and ruffling his hair, laughing. He screwed up his eyes as he desperately tried to gain control of his emotions, fighting against the drug that was still surging through his system, just as strong as it had been an hour ago, if not stronger. Eventually, he was able to stop the flow of tears that ran down his face but that was all he could manage, the drug was just too strong. Exhausted, he slumped forward in his chair, the thick length of rope binding him tightly to the chair was the only thing keeping him upright.

Amused by the effect that Moriarty's drug was having upon Sherlock, the man continued to watch him for a few more minutes, grinning, before and rising to his feet and walking across the room towards John. He bent down, briefly examining the unconscious man in front of him before twisting around to face Sherlock, laughing as he spoke.

"Do you want me to wake your boyfriend Sherly? I think he's been sleeping long enough"

Sherlock could hear the excitement in his voice and hesitated before looking up, dreading the sight that awaited him. Slowly, he lifted his head, looking up at John and the man standing next to him. As he did so, he felt the blood rush to his face and, again, had to fight to stay in control of his emotions. It took all of his strength to prevent himself from bursting into tears once more.

The man stood, towering over John. His expression terrified Sherlock. His cold, black, bloodthirsty eyes seemed to twinkle with excitement as a cruel smile danced upon his face. His lips were parted slightly, revealing his sharp, white teeth. He continued to stare at Sherlock as he slowly lifted his crowbar, bringing it above his head. Unable to tear his gaze away, Sherlock watched with horror as the man twisted round, bringing the crowbar crashing down upon his only friend. John.

* * *

John awoke with a start, letting out a sharp cry of pain as the crowbar struck his right shoulder. His eyes snapped open and he looked around, alarmed. His gaze fell upon Sherlock, who was sat in the chair opposite him, and his heart sunk. Sherlock looked... defeated. There was no other way to describe it. He felt fresh tears running down his cheeks as he gazed at the man in front of him. Sherlock Holmes, the most amazing person he had ever met. Or at least, he used to be Sherlock Holmes, John wasn't so sure anymore.

"Welcome back John, your boyfriend's been missing you"

He glared at the dark haired man now standing in front him, unable to find the words to describe exactly how he felt. Anger and hatred towards the man that had caused both himself and Sherlock so much pain threatened to overtake him and, for a moment, he was tempted to give in to his emotions. He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself down. The man laughed as he saw the expression on John's face and turned around, slowly walking across the room towards the sofa, placing his crowbar down upon the table on his way. He settled down in the sofa and watched as John continued to cry, his face screwed up, tears streaming down his cheeks.

John desperately tried to regain control over his emotions, Sherlock needed him and crying wouldn't help anyone. Determined to find a way to escape from the flat, he asked himself, what would Sherlock do? He had been thinking for about five minutes when, suddenly, an idea popped into his head.

He felt his mind clear, the anger and hatred that had previously occupied it replaced with a small spark of hope. The more he thought about it, the more certain he was that he could make it work. He glanced at the clock on the wall, 4.30 am. Perfect. He struggled not to smile as he realised how everything slotted into place. This might actually work.

Careful to make sure his face didn't give anything away, he began to formulate a plan...


	9. Escape

**Chapter 9**

John glanced at the clock, it was now 5.25 am, he had been here for over six hours. He was exhausted and in a great deal of pain but he knew he would have to ignore his discomfort in order for his plan to work. He wasn't going to let anything get in his way, not when Sherlock needed him. He glanced across the room towards Sherlock and his eyes stung as he looked once more into his friend's blank, emotionless face. What had happened to Sherlock? If only he had forced himself to stay awake, he might have been able to prevent this. Sherlock might still be with him...

He fought back the tears as he tried to calm down, he couldn't allow himself to fall apart. Sherlock needed him now more than he ever had before. He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath, preparing himself. Slowly, he looked up at the dark-haired man who was still sat on the sofa, watching him, and their eyes met. Until then, he had been sure that his plan would work, that he would somehow succeed, that he could save Sherlock. However, as he stared into the cold, black eyes, hopelessness washed over him. His mouth hung open and he gasped as he realised how slim the chances of his plan succeeding actually were, despair contorted his face as he continued to gaze into the cold, black eyes. The man laughed at John's expression, amused, and spoke quietly, his smooth voice sending a shiver down John's spine.

"Yes?"

John tore his eyes away, desperately looking around the room as he tried to think things through. Yes, there were a few flaws in his plan but he would try his best to overcome them. If he could not... well, he would just have to accept his fate, knowing that he had done everything within his power to save both himself and Sherlock but it was just not enough. He glanced towards Sherlock once more, he couldn't just give up and abandon his best friend, not when he was so weak and vulnerable. Determined, he turned back to the man, pulling his face into what he hoped was a fearful expression. Nervous, his hands shook slightly as he spoke and his voice wavered. Perfect.

"I-I... I n-need to..."

His voice trailed off and he tried to give the impression that he was too scared to continue. It worked. John watched as the man smiled and rose to his feet, slowly walking across the room towards him. The man crouched down in front of him, reaching out to place a hand upon his face, as if he were trying to comfort him. John instinctively flinched away from his touch, grimacing as he remembered all the pain this man had inflicted upon him with such joy in the last few hours. The man grinned as he spoke, pleased with the effect that his touch had upon John. His cold, mocking voice made the hairs on the back of John's neck stand on end.

"Aww... don't worry John, you're safe here, this is your flat after all. Now, what is it you want?"

John swallowed and looked away, trying to appear embarrassed. Wishing he could make himself blush, he spoke quietly, his voice weak and shaky.

"P-please... I n-need to go... to the t-toilet, it's been six h-hours..."

Again, his voice trailed off and he looked down towards his feet. The man roared with laughter, both surprised and amused by John's request. John continued to stare at the floor as the man stepped back, still laughing loudly, hoping that the man would decide to humour him. He looked up when the man finally stopped laughing, glancing around hopefully. The man was standing a few feet away from him, his dark eyes glittering in the light from the fire and a cruel smile upon his face. The man grinned as their eyes met and John's heart sunk, he had thought the man might have taken pity on him or decided to humour him but as he looked into his eyes, he realised that there was no chance of this happening. The man shuffled forward and crouched down in front of John, still grinning. The mocking tone was still present in the his voice as he spoke.

"I'm not stupid John, you're not going anywh-"

A quiet vibration against his leg, signalling an incoming text message, interrupted him. Surprised, he glanced down towards the source of the noise and reached into his pocket, pulling out a mobile phone. John watched quietly as the man stood up and took a few steps backwards, staring at the phone. The number was blocked, he opened the message, quickly reading through it.

_Let him go, I'm curious. M_

He read through the message a second time, confused. Why would his employer want to risk John escaping? He had no idea. He sighed as he walked over to John and began to untie the ropes binding him to the chair, orders were orders and he had to do what he was told, no matter how much he disliked it.

Bewildered, John watched as the man untied him, he had just started to give up any hope of his plan succeeding. It must be the text message, someone had ordered the man to release him. It must be someone high up, men like this didn't just obey orders from anyone. Who was the text from and why did they want him to be released? He tried to ignore the question nagging at the back of his mind, it didn't matter at the moment, he needed to focus on escaping now that his plan was back on track. He could try to figure it out later, after they escaped... if they escaped.

Suddenly, he fell forwards as the man untied the rope holding his torso to the back of the chair, the only thing that was keeping him upright. He gasped with pain as he knocked his broken leg and agitated the many cuts and bruises that he had acquired in the last few hours. Until now, he hadn't realised exactly how weak he was.

John looked up at the man, now standing in front of him, not bothering to hide the confusion on his face. The man nodded once and John could see that he too was completely baffled. Again, his thoughts returned to the message, who had sent it? It must have been someone important, but who? Despite all the obvious links, the idea that Jim Moriarty was involved in all of this did not even cross his mind. Unable to figure out who the sender was, he dismissed the subject, it wasn't relevant to the matter in hand.

He gasped again as the man stepped forwards and pulled him to his feet, sending a searing pain shooting up his left leg. John flung his arms out, trying to hold on to something so he could regain his balance as the man pushed him towards the bathroom, forcing him to step forwards and put all of his weight onto his broken leg. Blinded by pain and unable to hold his own weight, John collapsed on the floor, screwing his eyes shut as he waited for the pain to ebb. He heard a quiet laugh as he fell and grimaced, the other man's love of causing pain in others scared him.

He remained there, lying on his back, for a few moments before opening his eyes and glancing around, searching for something to aid his walking. Immediately, he noticed his walking stick, propped up against the wall, just a few feet away. The man stood behind him and watched, amused, as he dragged himself across the floor towards the wall. He reached out, grasping the stick, and used it to help himself up.

"Hurry up"

The cold voice made him flinch and he hoped now more than ever before that his plan would succeed, he didn't want to spend any more time alone with this man, not when he was weak and defenceless. He turned towards the bathroom and slowly limped across the room, towards the door, using the stick to support his weight instead of his left leg. He hesitated before going through the door, glancing back at Sherlock, and was roughly shoved through the doorway by the man behind him. He fought back the tears once more as he stepped into the bathroom, walking over to the toilet. He turned around, shocked, as the man followed him into the bathroom. He found that he was unable to prevent his voice from sounding weak and shaking slightly as he spoke.

"C-can I have s-some p-privacy... please?"

The man frowned slightly, annoyed, and quickly walked around the room, looking for any weapons that could be used against him of anything that John could use to contact someone for help. Satisfied that there was nothing of any significance in the room, he turned and left the room, closing the door behind him. John sighed as relief flowed through him, his plan was running smoothly so far. Now for the easy part.

He knew that Sherlock kept a gun in the bathroom, hidden in a small hole in the wall, behind the sink, that could not be seen from any angle but was just big enough to fit a small pistol inside. He bent over and reached down behind the sink, using the stick for support and hoping that Sherlock had not removed the gun. He smiled as his fingers closed around a cold metal object and pulled it out, he knew what it was. He briefly examined it, checking that it was fully loaded and in good working condition.

He held the gun in his right hand and took a deep breath, trying to calm his nerves. It was time to move. He lifted his arm, aiming the gun directly at what he knew would be the other man's head and slowly tapped on the door with his stick. The man opened it for him, turning to face him as he stepped through the doorway and froze as soon as he caught sight of the gun. Shock and fear contorting his face.

"Move"

John spat out the word, gesturing towards the living room with the barrel of the gun and watched as the man obediently backed away. He followed the man into the living room, standing in front of the door to Sherlock's bedroom and keeping the gun aimed at the man's head. His hands were shaking slightly as he pointed at Sherlock with his stick, leaning all of his weight on his right leg.

"Untie him"

His voice was steadier this time, he found that he was no longer nervous as the thrill that he had missed so much when he left the army returned to him once more. He wasn't a cruel man but there was something about aiming a gun at someone, being able to end their life in seconds, which appealed to him. He watched as the man began to fumble with the rope, desperately trying to untie it before John lost his temper. He allowed himself to relax slightly, happy that his plan had succeeded. He and Sherlock were safe.

Or so he thought...


	10. The Spider Returns

**Chapter 10**

John stood in the middle of the living room, his back to the door leading into Sherlock's bedroom, keeping the gun aimed at the dark-haired man's head. He watched as the man fumbled with the ropes binding Sherlock to his chair, glad that it was all over. His heart was pounding and his head spun, he didn't know if he would be able to remain standing for much longer but that didn't matter - his plan had worked. There was one thing irritating him though, a little thought niggling at the back of his mind. Who had sent the text? They had probably saved both his and Sherlock's lives and he wanted to know why. He screwed up his eyes as he tried to figure out who it was, desperate to solve this little conundrum.

Deep in his thoughts, he didn't notice the quiet creak of Sherlock's bedroom door opening and closing. Nor did he hear the muffled footsteps that approached him from behind or the soft breathing that accompanied them.

Unable to figure out who had sent the text, he opened his eyes and glanced towards the dark-haired man, surely he had untied Sherlock by now. He could feel his face flushing with anger as he saw that the man had stopped untying Sherlock and was stood, staring back at him.

"Get on with it!"

He growled, gesturing towards Sherlock with the gun. He glared at the man who remained standing beside Sherlock, fear contorting his face as he continued to disobey John's orders. John opened his mouth, about to speak, when a soft, menacing voice that he recognised all too well filled the room, sending a shiver down his spine.

"That won't be necessary"

Moriarty. He tried to twist round, to face the man standing behind him, to swing his arm round and aim the gun at his head but found that he was unable to move, paralyzed by fear. Dread filled his heart as the footsteps drew closer and he flinched at the gentle touch of Moriarty's hand upon his shoulder. Moriarty leaned in towards John's back until the two men were only inches apart, laughing quietly. John could feel his breath, warm against the back of his neck, as he closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to fight against the despair that threatened to consume him. He could feel himself starting to panic as Moriarty drew even closer to him, whispering softly into his ear, his voice cold and mocking.

"Look at you, Sherlock's loyal pet, coming up with a little plan to save your master. Battered and bruised but still willing to do anything for him. Would you still be just as loyal to your beloved Sherlock if I told you that all of this is his fault? Would you still love him if I told you that he _knew_ this was going to happen, that he _chose_ to let this happen to you, just so he wouldn't look stupid in front of Lestrade?"

John struggled to remain in control of his emotions as Moriarty spoke, would Sherlock really have done that to him? Of course not! He tried to ignore Moriarty's words but was unable to block them out completely. Doubt had begun to creep into his mind and he found himself wondering how well he actually knew Sherlock. Did Sherlock actually care about him? Of course he did! He took another deep breath, calming himself. He couldn't let Moriarty get to him, not after all he had been through in the last few hours.

"Aww... John, don't worry. It will all be over soon"

Moriarty laughed quietly as he gently stroked John's arm, he was enjoying himself. John's eyes flew open as he felt the sharp prick of a needle in his arm. He gasped and looked down at his arm, just in time to see the last of the opaque, turquoise liquid entering his bloodstream. Within minutes, the drug had already begun to affect him. He could feel what little strength he had left starting to ebb away and leaned on his walking stick for support. His mind seemed to thicken, slowing his thoughts and his voice was slurred as he tried to speak.

"Washt ish tis?"

Moriarty didn't reply, instead he laughed and watched, amused, as John fell to the ground, no longer able to hold himself upright. John lay there, sprawled out across the floor, as he tried to figure out what was happening to him. He looked up at Sherlock, who had remained silent and motionless in his chair, and realized that he must have been given the same drug, he didn't have much time left before he too would be unable to move or speak. Determined to make an effort to save both himself and Sherlock, he twisted round to face the dark-haired man, holding the gun out in front of him. He fired three times, each missing the man and hurtling through the window, out into the street, before collapsing to the ground. The noise from the shots echoed around London as he lay on the floor, fighting against the drug, struggling to remain conscious.

The last thought to cross his mind before he lost consciousness was that he _could_ have saved Sherlock. If only he had tried harder, his plan _might_ have worked. _Please forgive me Sherlock, I've let you down. I'm so sorry. _A single tear slid down his cheek as he slipped, once more, into unconsciousness.

* * *

**A/N:**

Just wanted to say thank you for all the reviews, alerts and favourites - they really mean a lot to me, especially the reviews - I never think my own writing's any good so I love to hear your opinions

Sorry for not updating in a while - I've been busy with college, work and writing my other fic - Moriarty's little 'game' - but I am currently half-way through the next chapter and should publish it tomorrow

-Skoliro95-


	11. Frustration

**Chapter 11**

_- Two hours earlier -_

"What's the time?"

Lestrade lifted his wrist, glancing at his watch. He groaned as he looked at it, he had been here for hours already and Sherlock seemed no closer to solving the case. He was exhausted and spending roughly five hours alone with the detective had only worsened his mood.

"Half past three in the bloody morning! For heaven's sake Sherlock, hurry up and solve the damn case so we can all go home! _Some_ of us have to get up early you know! Not _everyone_ can sit around all day, _we_ actually have to _work_!"

Normally he wouldn't have snapped whilst on a case, not even at Sherlock, but today he was tired and irritable. He had a mountain of paperwork to sort out before he could go home and he had to start work again at 8.30, at this rate he wasn't going to much time, if any, to sleep. He glared across the room at Sherlock, who completely ignored his discomfort and continued to examine the body of Elaine Briggs, that still lay in front of him, for what must be the hundredth time that day. Watching Sherlock, continuing with his work, ignoring anything that he didn't consider important - including himself - gave Lestrade the sudden urge to punch him and it took all of his strength to stop himself from lashing out at the detective. Not only would it be very irresponsible and unprofessional of him, he would probably end up hurting himself more than he would Sherlock - those cheek bones were lethal.

He turned away towards the door, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath to calm himself down. He slowly started walking towards the door, intending to step outside for a while and cool off so he could put up with Sherlock for a few more hours. He reached out for the handle, about to open the door, when Sherlock called out:

"You're not going, are you?"

Unless Lestrade was very much mistaken, there was a hint of sadness in his voice, as if he didn't want to be left alone. This slight change to Sherlock's voice stopped him in his tracks, his hand dropping to his side as he spun round to face Sherlock, who was watching him intently. Taken aback by Sherlock's sudden interest in him, he could only stare back into the pale blue eyes, his mouth hanging open slightly as his muddled brain struggled to process what was happening. Did Sherlock actually _care_ about him?

"Well?"

Sherlock asked impatiently, his voice cold and indifferent once more. As he spoke, he moved his gaze back to the corpse in front of him and began to examine it once more. _Of course he doesn't care! He's Sherlock Holmes for heaven's sake! He doesn't care about anyone! _Lestrade could feel the anger building up inside him once more and glared at Sherlock, who continued to ignore him. Again, the urge to step forward and punch the man threatened to overtake him and it took all of his strength to restrain himself. _Not now, I'm on duty. I don't want to get sacked because of __**him**__._

"No, I just... I need a few minutes... a bit of time to myself... so I don't, you know..."

His voice shook slightly as he spoke, much to his embarrassment, still fighting the urge to smack Sherlock in the face. Doing nothing to help his mood, Sherlock smirked as he replied, his mocking voice only irritating Lestrade further.

"So you don't do what exactly? Throw me out of the hospital? Refuse to let me solve this case? I'd like to see you try."

He laughed as he spoke, amused by Lestrade's anger, before continuing with his work. Frustrated, Lestrade turned and stormed out of the room, pausing as he stepped through the doorway to turn back towards Sherlock and yell at him, angrily.

"So I don't punch you in the face you _idiot_! You have _no idea_ how much I..."

Unable to continue, he let his voice drift off as spun around and stepped into the corridor. He could hear Sherlock chuckling quietly as he slammed the door shut behind him, angrily striding down the corridor towards the reception. He flung open the double doors to the reception, one of which hit Anderson in the chest and knocked him back into a small display, sending it crashing to the floor and scattering leaflets and flyers across the room. Stepping over Anderson, who was lying on the floor amongst the remains of the display, he quickly crossed the room towards the front door. Shouting at the forensic investigator as he left the room.

"Get up Anderson, you moron! If that mess isn't cleared up in the next five minutes, you _will_ regret it!"

He could hear Anderson grumbling about how it 'wasn't his fault' and that it was 'not fair' as the doors swung shut behind him but didn't care. He closed his eyes, taking deep breaths and enjoying the feeling of the cold air washing over his skin. It had been a long night and he was looking forward to getting some sleep. Opening his eyes, he gazed up at the stars above him, taking a moment to enjoy their beauty.

His head snapped round as he heard Sherlock's voice calling him from inside the hospital. Relieved, he turned and began walking back through the hospital, ignoring Anderson's complaints as he passed through the reception. Sherlock _never_ asked him for help with a case and, as he had everything he could possibly need, there was only one explanation for his calling for him - he had solved the case.

* * *

_- Two hours later -_

Lestrade sighed as he slotted the last of the paperwork into the filing cabinet beside his desk. The paperwork had taken longer to sort out than he had anticipated, a lot longer. He locked the cabinet, putting the key into the top drawer of his desk as usual. He closed the drawer and turned towards the door, slowly walking across the room and stepping out if the office. He locked the door behind him, slipping the keys into his pocket as he called out to Sally who was still working in the next room.

"Donovan, it's getting late. The paperwork's been sorted and I think we both deserve a rest, don't you? Leave whatever you have left for tomorrow, I'm sure it can wait"

He could hear papers being shuffled around frantically and numerous filing cabinets being opened and closed again as she replied.

"Just putting these papers away, won't be long. What time is it?"

He groaned as he glanced down at his watch, half past five already? Where had all the time gone? It seemed like only minutes ago he had heard the four gun shots that led him to St Barts, where he had remained with Sherlock for almost five hours. He was about to call out when Sally appeared in the doorway, she was smiling but she looked exhausted. Instead of replying, he simply lifted his wrist so she had a clear view of the watch. She looked at it and grimaced. _Looks like I'm not the only one who doesn't like staying up late. _Realising that it wouldn't be safe for her to drive, he volunteered himself for the task.

"Shall I drive? You look shattered, it would be irresponsible to let you fall asleep at the wheel"

She nodded in agreement and they slowly made their way out of Scotland Yard. They were halfway across the car park when they heard the distinctive sound of three gunshots in the distance.

"What the..."

They looked regretfully at each other for a moment before turning around and sprinting back towards the building.

* * *

**A/N:**

As promised, finished writing and published the next chapter within 24 hours - I hope you like it

Please let me know what you think - I love to hear your opinions and reviews are always good :)

Sorry I've taken so long to update - been _very_ busy recently but now I should have more time to write so hopefully I will be able to update again soon.

Woah! Over 10,000 hits now - you guys are awesome! Thank you so much for all your reviews/alerts/favourites, it really means a lot to me. I don't know if I would have even bothered to go this far without all your support so thank you all! :D

-Skoliro95-


	12. Rescue

**Chapter 12**

"Location?"

Lestrade asked quickly, forcing himself to concentrate on driving as they sped through the streets of London, sirens blaring. He heard Sally repeating his question, speaking into the radio that she carried on her belt, and continued driving in the rough direction of the three gunshots they had heard just minutes ago, awaiting a reply. They didn't have to wait long. Sally talked for a while more before sighing as she slowly lowered the radio from her ear, placing it once more in the pocket on her belt.

"Well? Where is it?"

He didn't mean to snap at her but it was now twenty to six in the morning and he didn't have the patience for her slow conversation. He took his eyes off the road and looked across at her, confused by her silence. She met his gaze, wearily looking back at him. He could see the exasperation in her face as she spoke, her voice frustrated and dripping with sarcasm.

"Where do you think? 221B Baker Street of course! It looks like we'll be paying our favourite psychopath a visit"

Groaning, he turned back to concentrate on the road and could feel the blood rushing to his cheeks as the anger that had almost overtaken him just a few hours ago returned, threatening to take over once more. _Of course it's Sherlock bloody Holmes! Who else would it be?_

"For heaven's sake, doesn't that man ever stop? Why can't he just call us like everyone else instead of shooting a gun every bloody time? It had better be about something important, if it's not..."

He let his voice trail off, his meaning clear. Frowning, he was just turning off the siren when something struck him, something so blatantly obvious that they had both overlooked it before, not realising its significance. His frown deepened as he grew annoyed at himself for failing to notice this before. _How could I have been so stupid? _Sally saw the change in his expression and gently placed a hand on his shoulder as she spoke, concerned.

"Lestrade? What's wrong?"

He gestured for her to be quiet, his brain working frantically as he tried to figure out what this small factor meant. Unable to figure it out for himself he turned to Sally, gazing into her eyes.

"_Three_ shots Donovan, _three_!"

She looked back at him, confused.

"Why is that important exactly?"

He groaned, why did she have to be so _stupid_ sometimes? He turned back to the road as he explained, trying to hide the annoyance from his voice.

"Sherlock has used that method to call us many times, like earlier on tonight when he wanted us to go to St Barts, but he has always fired the gun _four_ times so we know that it's him. _Four_, not _three_! It can't be a mistake - he's Sherlock Holmes for heaven's sake, _he _doesn't make mistakes. That must mean..."

His voice drifted off as he realised exactly what it meant. Alarmed, he glanced at Sally and could tell from her expression that she was thinking the same thing. He slammed his foot down on the accelerator, flying past the other cars at over twice the speed limit and heading straight for 221B Baker Street.

For the first time in his life, Sherlock Holmes needed him...

* * *

Lestrade pulled up quietly outside 221B Baker Street, taking care to make as little noise as possible. He had kept the sirens off because, when Sherlock needed help, they had both agreed that the element of surprise would be _very_ helpful. They both got out of the car, closing the doors softly, and walked over to the black door leading into the flat. The street was completely deserted except from one taxi which was waiting nearby. Gesturing to the taxi, he whispered quietly.

"Donovan, get rid of him would you? I want the street to be clear, just in case..."

She nodded, understanding exactly what he meant, and made her way over to the taxi, crouching down as she talked to the driver. Lestrade quickly withdrew a note book from his pocket and scrawled down the number of the licence plate as the taxi drove away. Sally walked back over to him and they waited until the taxi was out of sight before turning to the door. Making as little noise as possible, Lestrade quietly turned the handle and pressed against the door but it didn't budge_._

"Locked. Get out of the way"

He muttered as he stepped back, preparing to break down the door. There was no chance of them entering the flat without being heard so he turned back to Sally and spoke quickly.

"Arm yourself Donovan. I have no idea what's waiting for us on the other side of that door but you need to be ready. I want you to go straight upstairs, I will search the ground floor first and then come up and join you. If you have any problems, shout and I will be there as soon as I can"

She nodded, showing she understood, as she withdrew her gun and aimed it at the door, ready. They exchanged a quick glance before, with a yell, Lestrade threw himself at the door...


	13. Rescue (Part 2)

**Chapter 13**

Sally watched as Lestrade threw himself at the door, sending it crashing to the ground and accidentally falling with it, ending up sprawled out across the entrance to the hallway. She charged forwards, holding her gun out in front of her at arm's length and stepping over Lestrade as she made her way over to the foot of the stairs. Cautiously, she looked around, there was no one in sight but she knew better than to presume that the flat was empty, she had to be on her guard at all times. Glancing back, she watched as Lestrade scrambled to his feet and pulled out his own gun, aiming it at the shadows that occupied the flat on the ground floor. He caught her gaze and, for a few moments, they looked into each other's eyes, communicating silently. She smiled wearily as he nodded once and turned away, heading off to search the ground floor. She watched him leave, waiting until he had disappeared into the shadows before she took a deep breath, trying to calm her nerves, and started to ascend the stairs.

She was halfway up the staircase when the door leading into Sherlock and John's flat creaked open and the silhouette of a man appeared in the doorway. Her head snapped round as she heard the noise and, as soon as she caught sight of the figure, she swept her arms around, aiming the gun at the man's head. Her hands shook slightly as she called out, nervously. Her voice trembling despite her best efforts to hide her fear.

"F-freak? I-is that you?"

There was no reply, the man simply stepped forwards onto the first step at the top of the stairs. She squinted, trying to make out the man's face.

"J-John?"

Again, the man remained silent as he took another step towards her. As he did so, she noticed the light coming from the open doorway behind him reflecting off of a long, metal object that he held in his hand. She squinted again, this time trying to figure out what the object was. It was long, slim and made of some sort of grey metal. Possibly a crowbar? She gasped as he took another step forwards and the light from the hallway below her shone onto the end of the object, revealing the dried blood that coated it. Fear overtook her as she realised the man's intentions and she found herself rooted to the spot, unable to move or cry out for help. The man took another step forwards and laughed softly, sending a shiver running down her spine. He reached out with the crowbar and casually knocked the gun out of her hands, laughing coldly again as it clattered down the steps, landing in the hallway.

Swiftly, he crossed the remaining distance between the two of them, almost skipping down the steps. As he stepped into the light, she could see his face for the first time. She looked into the cold, black eyes that stared back at her with such a malicious joy, she found that she was unable to look away from them. She did not notice the crowbar gliding through the air, towards her head, until it was too late and crumpled to the ground, unconscious in seconds.

* * *

Lestrade had just finished searching the downstairs flat, finding nothing of interest, when he heard a low thump on the stairs, followed by a peculiar dragging noise - as if someone was dragging something heavy up the staircase. Curious, he called out.

"Donovan? Is that you?"

There was no reply, this worried him slightly. He slowly made his way out of the downstairs flat, careful not to trip over any of the low-lying furniture that covered the floor, concealed by shadows. As he did so, he called out again, concerned.

"Donovan, where are you? Are you alright?"

Again, there was no reply. He had left the downstairs flat and was approaching the staircase when a small, black object lying on the floor in the middle of the hallway caught his attention. He froze, his eyes widening and his mouth dropping open slightly in shock, as he realised what the object was - Sally's gun. Alarmed, he moved his gaze to the stairs, gasping as he saw the trail of blood starting roughly halfway up the staircase and leading into the flat above him. He could feel his heart race increasing as he began to panic - not only had their unknown adversary broken into the flat and kidnapped, or maybe even killed, both Sherlock and John, they had also disarmed and wounded a trained officer from Scotland Yard. Alright, Donovan wasn't the strongest person in the force but she was still pretty tough.

He took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down as he thought through the situation he was now in. He was alone, standing by the only exit to the flat - no one could enter or leave the building without him noticing. Donovan had been wounded and dragged up into the flat above him where, presumably, she was now being held hostage - he refused to believe that she had been killed. He froze as he heard the sound of someone walking around in the room directly above him, followed by a muffled laugh. Keeping his gun aimed at the stairs, he removed the small radio from his back pocket with his free hand and quickly spoke into it, his voice barely more than a whisper.

"Gregson? This is Lestrade, currently at the site of the shooting. I need back-up, urgently! Donovan is injured and currently being held hostage. I can't handle this on my own"

He could hear Gregson barking out orders to the officers at Scotland Yard before replying, his rough voice familiar and reassuring.

"Back-up are on their way, they will be with you in roughly five minutes. Stay where you are, _they _will find _you_. Do _not_ make any attempt to rescue Donovan, Holmes or Watson. Just _stay put_ Lestrade, we _don't_ want another casualty on our hands and I know what you're like"

With that, Gregson broke the connection and Lestrade slid the radio back into his pocket. He sighed, relieved, back-up were on their way. He thought about what Gregson had said and smiled. Him, stay put? Whilst a fellow officer and two friends, if he could call Sherlock a 'friend', were in danger? Not a chance!

He bent down and picked up Sally's gun before slowly walking over to the foot of the stairs. Quietly, he crept up the steps, making as little noise as possible and holding both guns out in front of him, aiming them at the door at the top of the staircase. He paused on the stairs as he heard voices coming from the flat, ignoring the damp blood on the steps that was slippery under his shoes. They were both men's voices, neither of them were Sherlock or John's but one _did _seem familiar. Unable to recall who the voice belonged to, he dismissed the subject and continued to climb the stairs as quietly as he could. As he approached the door, the voices suddenly fell silent and he became aware of sirens in the distance, still a few minutes away.

He paused as he reached the door and took a deep breath to steady his nerves, he only had one chance to do this, he _had_ to get it right. His heart thumped in his chest and his hands shook as he fought against the fear that had built up inside him, urging him to turn and run.

He sighed as he took a step back and, before he could change his mind, hurled himself at the door, bursting into the room with a yell as it swung open, revealing one of the most shocking sights he had ever seen...

* * *

**A/N:**

Just wanted to say a quick thank you for all the reviews/alerts/favorites - you guys are great :D This story has had over 12,000 hits now which is amazing, I never expected it to be this popular

As always, I would love to hear your views so, if you have the time, please leave a review

Thanks once more, I wouldn't have done this without you. I hope you like it :D


	14. Awakening

**Chapter 14**

_- Two days later -_

"John? Can you hear me John?"

A familiar voice rang out through the darkness that seemed to be almost smothering John, reaching out to him, pulling him back to reality. He frowned slightly, still not fully conscious, struggling to remember who the voice belonged to. It was male, of that he was sure. Calm and reassuring, he knew it belonged to a friend. _Could it be Sherlock? _ He quickly dismissed the idea; it was too kind, too warm and friendly. _No, that's definitely not Sherlock... Who then? _He flinched as a hand gently pressed against his shoulder, interrupting his thoughts. He fearfully recoiled away from the light touch, half expecting it to be followed by a blinding pain, thinking that it was the dark-haired man.

"Oh god, I'm so sorry John, I didn't mean to scare you. What you've been through... I just... sorry, that was careless of me. Don't worry, you're in a hospital. You're safe now, no one's going to hurt you"

The man pulled his hand away as he realised what he had done wrong, his voice slightly quieter as he spoke in a soothing tone, trying to reassure John. Realising that he wasn't in any danger, John relaxed slightly, sinking back into the soft mattress and letting out a small sigh of relief. Still unsure as to who was speaking to him, he tried to open his eyes, struggling to lift the heavy lids. With a great deal of effort, he slowly opened them a little and winced as the bright light momentarily blinded him, stinging his eyes. He waited for a moment, allowing his eyes to adjust to the light before opening them further and looking at the man standing beside him, blinking to clear the blurriness caused by sleep as his gaze fell upon the tall, silver haired man standing to his left.

"Greg..."

He murmured, his weak voice barely audible above the noise created by the hospital machinery behind the bed, just out of his sight. Lestrade was standing beside his bed, watching him carefully, a sad smile upon his face. Turning away from Lestrade, John looked down at himself and gasped slightly as he saw all the tubes and wires attached to his arms and chest, connecting him to the array of hospital equipment surrounding his bed that was constantly monitoring his condition. He was wearing only a thin pair of hospital trousers, the left leg of which had been rolled up to accommodate the large plaster cast spanning from his knee to his toes, holding his broken leg in place. His bare chest and arms were covered in various bandages and dressings, as well as two drips attached to his right arm. He shivered slightly, feeling self-conscious and exposed.

"W-what happened?"

He looked up at Lestrade as he spoke, unable to remember anything after Moriarty had injected the drug into his arm. Whatever it was, it must have been pretty powerful stuff. Lestrade sighed, examining John for a moment before sitting down in the chair beside his bed, resting his hands on his knees. As he did so, John caught a glimpse of a large bruise on the right-hand side of his face but decided not to mention it, instead waiting patiently for Lestrade to explain.

"I wanted to ask you the same question, to be honest. I'm guessing you know what was going on inside the flat before we arrived?"

John nodded slightly, grimacing as he remembered exactly what he had endured for hour after hour that night. He coughed quietly, clearing his throat before speaking and was glad to find that his voice now sounded somewhat stronger than it had before.

"Yes... until about five thirty. Although... I don't think I'm ready to talk about that... not yet"

Lestrade nodded, understanding and smiled sympathetically.

"Don't worry, I'm not going to hassle you for information, wait until you're ready. Five thirty you say? That's just before you fired the three shots..."

He trailed off, noticing John's confused expression, and frowned slightly.

"You don't remember firing the gun?"

"No... I had it in my hand but I don't remember actually firing it. I can't remember anything that happened after Moriarty injected that damn drug into my arm"

"Ah, I see"

Lestrade leaned back in the chair, settling down as he began to explain everything that had happened...

* * *

"Christ..."

Staring at the ceiling, John found himself lost for words, trying to take in all the information Lestrade had just given him. From when Sherlock had solved the case five hours after John had left up until the moment he had burst into the room at 221B Baker Street, Lestrade had told John everything, taking his time to ensure he didn't miss a single detail.

"How the hell...? What you saw... I wouldn't have been able to do that..."

John turned his head to gaze at Lestrade who looked back at him, raising an eyebrow, slightly surprised by John's reaction. Leaning forwards in his chair, Lestrade frowned slightly as he spoke.

"What are you talking about John? _That_ was nothing compared to what _you've_ been through. You endured six hours of hell _and then_ almost got yourself killed trying to escape with Sherlock, all _I _did was follow the gunshots..."

John's ears pricked up at the mention of Sherlock's name - until that moment, it had completely slipped his mind that his flatmate was absent. He sighed, too tired to argue with Lestrade and murmured quietly.

"You did more than that Greg, much more. All I did was survive... Where is he anyway?"

Lestrade was about to argue back but paused when he saw the expression on John's face and, realising that he was completely exhausted, decided to let it drop. He frowned again, confused by John's question.

"Who?"

"Sherlock! Who do you think?"

John didn't mean to snap at Lestrade but he was getting increasingly worried about Sherlock. Although they had both presumably been given the same drug, because Moriarty was involved, he suspected that Sherlock had been given a much stronger dose than he had and was concerned about the long term side-effects that it might have on his mind.

"Oh... erm, well... he's a little busy at the moment..."

Lestrade leaned back slightly and looked away, unable to hold John's gaze, clasping his hands together as he searched for something,_ anything_, to distract John. Watching Lestrade intently, John frowned as the man turned away. _He had better not be hiding something from me..._

"Is there something you're not telling me Greg?"

Lestrade sighed, forcing himself to meet John's gaze and leant forwards in the chair, resting his elbows on his knees and holding his head in his hands. He took a deep breath, his face sincere as he spoke quietly, the usual cheerful tone gone from his voice.

"I've got some bad news for you John... about Sherlock..."

* * *

**A/N:**

Sorry for taking so long to update - I'm planning to write more _very_ soon so hopefully you won't have to wait as long for the next chapter :)

As always, thank you so much for all the reviews, favorites and alerts - they really mean a lot to me :D


	15. Reunited

**Chapter 15**

John's heart sunk as Lestrade spoke, a hard lump forming in his throat as the words sunk in. _What's happened to Sherlock? _He could only gaze helplessly at Lestrade, his muddled brain rendering him unable to speak, his eyes desperately urging the man to explain. John's initial feelings of both confusion and sadness were quickly overridden, however, and replaced with a mixture of astonishment and anger as Lestrade looked away and lifted a hand to his face, unable to hold back a small smile, covering his mouth in a futile attempt to hide his amusement. Ignoring a small shuffling noise towards the right of his bed, John stared at Lestrade, his anger gradually building as the inspector continued to avoid his gaze, looking instead at a point on the ceiling, above John's head, sniggering. _How can he find this even slightly amusing?! Sherlock could be-_

"I'm absolutely fine."

John's head snapped round as a familiar voice rang out behind him, interrupting his thoughts, his anger at Lestrade immediately forgotten as his eyes fell upon the tall, curly-haired man standing to the right of his bed. Sherlock sighed with exasperation, looking down at John with a blank expression, seemingly oblivious to the surge of emotions now flooding his best friend's mind as a result of his sudden appearance. Shrugging his shoulders and looking down at his feet, Sherlock continued, the tone of his voice still one of false dismay.

"It's such a shame really. They were working on me for hours but nothing they could do had any effect. I am just far too strong..."

John stared at Sherlock in disbelief, his mouth hanging open slightly as his mind struggled to process what was going on. Dropping his facade, Sherlock looked back towards John and grinned, his pale blue eyes gleaming in the bright light as he stepped forwards, gingerly sitting down on a second chair to the right of John's bed, watching his friend attentively.

"How are you feeling, John?"

Gazing back at the detective, John could have sworn that, in the brief moment it took Sherlock to say those words, a shadow of concern had passed across his friend's face, his brow furrowing slightly and his eyes narrowing momentarily before his features settled once more into the impassive mask he usually bore. John paused before answering, taking a moment to analyse the various emotions still surging through his mind, the foremost of which was joy, followed by relief and anger, as he tried to figure out exactly _how_ he was feeling. Eventually, he managed to string a sentence together, looking into Sherlock's eyes as he spoke, the ghost of a smile playing across his lips.

"Like punching Greg."

Sherlock smirked at John's remark, glad to see that his friend was in high spirits, despite all that had happened to him in the last few days, and was about to speak when Lestrade interjected.

"Oh, that's charming. And after all I've done for you..."

"Yeah, well. You shouldn't have nearly given me a bloody-"

"Now, now, boys. This isn't the time or place."

Sherlock called out, interrupting the pair, chuckling softly as he paused briefly to ensure that he had their attention.

"You can continue your little squabble in a few days time, when John has recovered enough to uphold a lengthy conversation. But for now, he must rest, so if you are quite finished, inspector."

He rose to his feet as he spoke, swiftly walking over to the door and holding it open for Lestrade, gesturing for the man to leave.

"But I wanted to-"

"It can wait. Now, if you wouldn't mind leaving us alone, there are a few matters I wish to discuss with John in private."

Sherlock called out sternly, tapping his foot impatiently as he held the door open. Realising that he had no other choice, Lestrade rose from his chair with a sigh and slowly strode across the room, muttering a quick goodbye to John as he stepped through the doorway and left the room.

As soon as the inspector was clear of the doorway, Sherlock slammed the door shut behind him and swiftly strode back to John, settling down in the plastic chair to the right of his bed once more. John gazed at him curiously, wondering what he had wanted to talk about in private. It was obviously something that Sherlock didn't feel comfortable about mentioning in front of Lestrade, otherwise he would have done so there and then. Sherlock stared down at his feet, feeling a little uneasy and embarrassed.

"John. There's... something I want to say to you... about the other day"

"Yes?"

John frowned slightly, a little concerned about Sherlock's strange behavior, and continued to watch his friend inquisitively, waiting for him to explain further. Sherlock took a deep breath, keeping his eyes fixed on the toe of his shoe, suddenly finding himself unable to look John in the eye.

"I, erm... I just wanted to say... thank you. Thank you for everything you did that day. If you hadn't, I... I probably wouldn't be here now. You... you rescued me, I wouldn't have been able to do it on my own. So, thank you..."

He slowly lifted his head to look at John as he spoke, worried about what his reaction might be, and was surprised to see his friend grinning broadly at him, evidently pleased by Sherlock's words.

"Wow. You're _actually _thanking me."

John gazed up at Sherlock in amazement, chuckling softly, unable to wipe the grin from his face.

"It was, uh... no problem, I guess... I mean, you would have done the same for me, right?"

"Of course."

Sherlock allowed the corners of his lips to curl back into a small smile as he slowly rose to his feet and began to walk towards the door.

"Now, I have something else to discuss with you, if you're feeling up to it?"

John nodded, watching as Sherlock made his way over to the door, a little confused. Noticing John's expression, Sherlock paused as he reached the door, quickly adding:

"I have something to show you but I appear to have left it in the lab. You don't mind waiting whilst I go and retrieve it, do you?"

John shook his head.

"No, I don't mind. Although it's not like I have much of a choice anyway."

"Good. I'll only be a minute."

And with that, Sherlock was gone. Leaving John alone to contemplate the events of the past few days in peace, his mind finally being given the time it needed to process all the information he had received. He closed his eyes, leaning back against the pillows, and thought about what had happened in the last few hours, not wanting to reawaken painful memories of the night a few days previously just yet. Instead, he thought about Sherlock, how _he_ had been affected by this experience.

Although Sherlock had tried to hide it, John had noticed that this recent encounter with Jim Moriarty had dealt a significant blow to his friend's confidence, planting the seed of doubt in his mind, making him question his own ability and judgement. Like John, Sherlock hadn't come out of this ordeal unscathed, far from it in fact. But at least they were safe from Jim Moriarty and his cruel, sadistic employee.

For now.

* * *

**A/N:** **  
**

Sorry for taking so long to update! I hadn't forgotten about this, I just haven't had much time to write over the summer.

As always, thank you for all the alerts, favorites and reviews, I really appreciate them :)

Hope you like it,

Skoliro95


End file.
